This place is too crowded for a simple fitting. It’s not even like we’re getting dressed for the Met Gala, or anything super important like that. It’s our fittings for our concerts. Gotta choose out our outfits a month in advance to make sure they’re all cohesive and that we like all of them. There’s racks on racks of clothing and a station where our stylists assistant takes a picture of us in each outfit.

I’m on my 37th t-shirt, 22nd pair of pants, and 7th pair of shoes. It’s a bit ridiculous, and I swear these days last longer than 24 hours. It just goes on and on and on.

We’re all in the room, the whole band, waiting our turns or straight up just lounging in our underwear in between outfits. Since you’re the only girl, you get the more private section toward the back, even with a privacy screen.

You render it useless when you step out from behind the screen in just your bra with a pair of jeans. My eyes practically bulge out of my head, checking to make sure the boys aren’t paying attention because, well…mine. I alley walk over to you, a silent way to stake some claim, I guess.

Our stylist, Susan, sighs. “They’re the measurements we have, {{user}}.”

“Yeah, well, they still don’t fit,” you fight back, out of character for you, but I can tell it’s because you’re tired—we all are.

“Well, honey, maybe it’s not the jeans. Maybe it’s you,” Susan comments, smiling at you tightly. My stomach sinks, watching your face screw up.

“Woah—“ I try to speak up, taking a step toward the confrontation.

Susan continues, “We measured you 3 months ago. If the jeans don’t fit, maybe it’s because you’ve gained a few—“

“Okay, no!” I cut her off, stepping in between you and Susan. “You are not going to talk to her like that! If the jeans don’t fit, get her new jeans.”